


Goddess on The Bed

by DoreyG



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: (Though I'm not sure if two kisses really count as kink), Biting, Brief Foot!Kink, Brief mention of scars, But also quite a lot of getting naked, COULSON LIVES!, Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Natasha has a lovely body, Post-Canon, Quite a lot of talking, Tony probably hasn't created a clone army just to annoy Natasha but it's only a matter of time, Worship, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:35:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Natasha,” he tells her fondly, at midnight when she’s <i>allowing</i> him to carry her to bed, “you do know that you’re my favourite person, right?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goddess on The Bed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Worship square on my Kink_Bingo card, since I've done little bits for these two before but really wanted to write something proper. This originally started out as a different fic, but didn't have enough talking in it and was far too soppy besides (not that this isn't a bit soppy, erm). And you have no _idea_ how hard I fought to prevent myself from using at least one lyric from "Venus" in the title.

“Natasha,” he tells her fondly, at midnight when she’s _allowing_ him to carry her to bed, “you do know that you’re my favourite person, right?”

“You have said,” she informs him dispassionately, in a way that’s almost _fond_ for Natasha, “once, or twice, or a million times in various shootouts across the globe.”

“You’re overexaggerating,” he mock-huffs, risking an elbow in a tender place because it’s _true_ and he assumes that Natasha doesn’t want to go through the effort of being dropped at this time of night, “and it _deserves_ repeating. For you are my favourite person, my _very_ favourite person above _everybody_ else.”

“Now who’s exaggerating?” She mock-frowns in return, smiles slightly with her eyes when they somehow manage to reach the bed unscathed, “what about Thor? And Bruce? And _Coulson_?”

“All are lovely,” he sniffs, lowering her down with all due care and ceremony, “and hilarious when you give them pop-tarts, and the sweetest man alive despite regularly turning into a green angry thing that likes smashing gods, and _hot_ in a tailored suit – but none of them compare to you.”

“Sweet,” she sniffs, edging back on the bed and kicking her ridiculously high heels off with an ease that he _probably_ should be envious of.

“But true,” he croons, slipping out of his own suit jacket and quickly getting started on the crisp white shirt beneath, “because, in fact, I’d also say that you’re my favourite _thing_ in the world.”

“Don’t lie,” Natasha only deadpans, twisting back to undo her dress with all the ease of a master assassin who is only keeping the world alive because it amuses her for some unknown reason, “your bow will be absolutely heartbroken, it will be a vicious love triangle that none of us will ever break free from.”

“Ha ha,” he says, in a tone so sarcastic that Tony probably raises his head across the city and indignantly goes _hey_ at that very moment, “I _mean_ it: you are so perfect that I value you even more than my bow.”

“So you’d break it over your knee if I asked?” She flutters her eyelashes mock innocently, somehow manages to slip her way out of that dress smoothly because she is apparently both a master assassin and a _snake_ , “throw your arrows out of the window and settle for an ordinary life on the ground forevermore?”

…He looks so distressed that it probably sets off alarms all over the city the city (or at least in the grand Avengers HQ which he _knows_ they have – they probably have alarms there for when any one of them gets upset, just so they can get nuclear missiles there in time), “I wouldn’t go _that_ far.”

Natasha, being the kindest woman on earth, only _laughs_ at him. Casually waves one hand for him to continue his, _justifiably_ halted, grand disrobing and uses the free hand to quickly undo her bra, “and I’d never ask you to.”

“Don’t even _joke_ -“

“Poor baby,” she pouts at him in a way so _blatantly_ false that he almost starts laughing, drops her bra to the floor and is out of her underwear so fast that he’s almost left blinking, “come here and let nurse Tasha take care of the nasty boo-boo.”

“…Never say that again,” he still tries to fake a frown, can only manage it for roughly three seconds before laughing and shucks his trousers and underwear in short order – clambering up onto the bed and in between her waiting legs with an eagerness that still has her smirking each and every time, “you would be an awful nurse. You’d end up killing every single one of your patients because they whined too much.”

“Only if all my patients were Tony Stark,” she smiles blithely, “and Fury would accept that as justifiable homicide.”

“…He would do that, you know: create a thousand clones of himself and injure them in various ways just to annoy you.”

“What a horrifying thought,” she sighs melodramatically, and draws him down into a distracting kiss – one that he _swears_ gets a little better every time to the point where he’s had every single one of his best kisses with a certain Natasha Romanova, master assassin and space-hole closer extraordinaire.

“Mm,” he manages, when they finally part and Natasha is looking as unbearably smug as ever “…You really are perfect, you know.”

“Are we back to that?”

“We’ll always be back to that,” he tells her absolutely sincerely, stroking a hand down her naked side and smiling as she only raises her eyebrow at him, “you are my favourite person, after all. And my favourite thing. And my _favourite_. And somebody who is my _absolute_ favourite deserves to be told how perfect she is all the time.”

“ _Told_ ,” Natasha intones flatly, as he strokes her side a second time, “honestly, Barton. Haven’t you heard of that old phrase: show, don’t tell?”

He stops in his stroking to frown at her. It’s quite an achievement, really, “that’s paraphrased.”

“The general meaning is still carried across,” she shrugs dismissively, shakes her red hair back and gives him a look that is actively _challenging_ , “if you really _mean_ the whole perfect spiel you’ll show me with your tongue instead of telling me with your words, if not…”

“I do mean it,” he may _actually_ huff this time, maintaining the frown even as she starts to smirk at him yet again.

“ _Prove_ it.”

…Bless Natasha, she’s the only person who always knows _exactly_ how to get him to do things.

So he kisses her again – yep, still the best kiss he’s ever had – to start and then slowly makes his way down her body, treating it like it’s something fine and precious in every way.

He nibbles down her neck first, which is sensible because it’s actually _connected to her head_. Mouths along under her jaw before slowly swooping lower – Placing nips down the right side before teasingly trailing his mouth over her collarbone and biting back up the left side until he can get another kiss.

_Naturally_.

“Hurry up, Barton,” she sighs languidly, only giving him the kiss like she’s doing him a profound and complicated favour, “I haven’t got all night.”

“That’s a lie,” he sniffs haughtily, but takes the hint anyway.

He’s already covered the neck – though, to be honest, he could cover Natasha’s neck _all_ day – and so he only graces it with the briefest brush of his lips before getting back to her collarbone. Which is, indeed, a beautiful thing and worth taking time over – he traces the tip of his tongue over it first, lightly, follows it up with a steady trail of his lips and finishes with a happy _scrape_ of his teeth.

She lets out a pleased little hum in response. Which, in Natasha language, is practically a full throated moan.

Encouraged by this, and the fact that he can read Natasha just as well as she can read him, he places an actual _bite_ on the place where collarbone sheepishly turns into shoulder and moves lower still – nibbling and nipping all the way until her head is tipped boredly back against the pillow and she’s sighing softly at the ceiling.

He’s always loved Natasha’s breasts, ever since that first time she pinned him against a wall in Budapest and told him very firmly that they needed a distraction. As such he knows them very well, and as _such_ he starts with the less sensitive one just to build suspense. He mouths around it first – top to bottom in a way that has Natasha’s nails contemplatively tracing over the sheets. Then slowly kisses and bites up it until he can suck the nipple into his mouth – Swirling his tongue once, twice before gently scraping his teeth.

Natasha purrs at that, it sounds an awful lot like screaming applause.

He buries his head in the hollow between her breasts for a moment, because he _is_ a vaguely sensible man, before switching to the other one. Carefully nipping around bottom to top this time, because he _does_ love a bit of variety, before leaning in further. He teases her, tonguing his way down to the nipple until he can suck it in with a wet _pop_ \- quickly scrape his teeth before she even knows what he’s doing.

…Though, of course, she always knows what he’s doing. Always has and always will, and _proves_ it by a sharp tighten of her thighs and a slightly amused look.

He still lingers for a while, because _breasts_ , but takes the hint yet again. Departs with one final, incredibly fond, kiss and then keeps progressing. Kissing under her breasts, tonguing over her stomach, biting every scar along the way because they’re precious and beautiful and _deserve_ to be appreciated just as much as the rest of her in the best way they’ve been taught.

As she’s sighing again, wriggling a little as if thinking of the weather, he takes the opportunity to place a sharp nip to both of her hips. Takes the further, related, opportunity to bypass the place in between her legs entirely and move on to her _fantastic_ thighs: tanned and muscular and so very capable of killing a man. He picks the left one first, slowly lifts his hand up to trace over it and follows the path of his fingers with his tongue.

And, as any good Barton knows, the fun doesn’t stop when he reaches the kneecap. He pauses there for a moment, wriggles his tongue in a _vain_ attempt to get at least a giggle, but quickly gives it up as a downright impossible job and moves on – Slowly down her shin, until he can kiss her ankle and trace his mouth over the arch of her foot.

No stopping there, though, for now the entire expanse of her inner leg is ready to be explored. He kisses the other side of her ankle briefly, lingers over her inner shin for a long moment before mouthing his way up to her inner thigh – leaving random bites along the way as lovely _presents_ that she can finger the morning after (for this is the way they remember each other, by digging their nails in and cherishing the scars).

…And he skips the bit right between her legs again, as she grumbles softly above him, in favour of skipping right over to her other inner thigh!

“Barton,” she continues to growl at him, as he swiftly mouths down to circle his tongue over the soft flesh beneath her knee.

“Yes?” He asks sweetly, swiftly moving his face away before it can be _crushed_ and continuing down her shin in a more _meandering_ frame of mind.

“Would you mind hurrying up?” As she _properly_ huffs, glaring down as he nips her other ankle, scratches his teeth over her other arch and starts on her other outer leg with all the joy of a _true_ (bastard) professional (professional bastard).

“Why?” He finds the time to ask innocently, mouthing the flesh beneath her knee again from a different angle before continuing his happily teasing climb, “you can’t tell me that you, Natasha Romanova, are getting _impatient_.”

“I can tell you whatever I wish,” she retorts sweetly, only a touch tensely as he lays open mouthed kisses along her upper thigh and over the curve of her rather attractive hip, “just as you can believe whatever you wish, Just as you’ll believe whatever I tell you to wish because I can break your neck with one flick of my wrist.”

…He _laughs_ , finally halting and nuzzling his face into her impressive curves, “Charming.”

She just gives him a look. A look that quite clearly says, in many different languages and dialects, _I will, Barton, don’t assume that I’m joking about your very serious funeral_.

_So_ charming.

…He can entirely understand her point of view.

She actually smiles a little when he finally settles properly between her legs, a smile that soon turns into a wicked smirk as he reaches up to hook one of them over his shoulder and swiftly bends down. The taste of her is as wonderful as ever, nothing in particular but something that always reminds him inevitably of _Natasha_ , and he falls to lapping at it with great enthusiasm – unrefined strokes before he can catch himself.

…For this is Natasha, and unrefined simply _won’t_ do.

He forces himself to slow down, quickly before she actually breaks his neck. Finds her clit easily and licks it with _slow_ , _dragging_ strokes. Ones designed to drive anybody absolutely crazy – maybe even master assassins named Natasha (though Natasha is, of course, most emphatically _not_ nobody).

She gives a soft rumble, an actually _approving_ sound, and he smiles a little. Absently starts tracing letters over her – there a G, there an O, there a D, there another D (he thinks that there are two Ds, he’ll have to ask Coulson later and brave the fearsome rolling of the eyes), there an E, there a teasing S…

And, okay, another tightening of her thighs to go along with the second soft rumble. He swiftly draws back from that: starts sucking instead, ever so gently until she’s lifting her hips slightly and slowly scraping her nails across the blanket yet again. Starts alternating the sucks with more swipes of his tongue – faster this time, sharp and quick and darting until her nails actually _dig_ in,

…Just briefly.

It’s _enough_.

And, just as she’s starting to ease again, he ducks down quickly. Thrusts his tongue into her in a way that actually draws a _chuckle_ of delight. Curls it and sets up an acceptable rhythm for a few moments before he deems it time to add in a finger, pump that in slow time with his tongue as he slowly reaches out to caress her knee yet again…

Her thighs tighten for a moment, she quietly rips the blankets with the clench of her hands.

…And then her fingers ease and her leg slides off his shoulder and she lets out a low _moan_ and comes – quietly, hardly, with a happy shake that is better than all the writhing in the whole wide world.

It’s a long few seconds before she finally opens her eyes again and smirks down at him.

“Perfect,” he tells her sincerely, giving her knee one final pat before slowly drawing away. Sitting back on his knees and marvelling at how he manages to avoid slamming his absurdly hard cock into a single thing.

Natasha just smirks at him silently for another moment before easily flipping them, tossing him onto his back and straddling him easily as he simply lets out a surprised laugh and reaches up to trace his fingernails slowly over her equally ( _stunningly_ ) perfect back.

“You’re my favourite person too, Barton,” she only chuckles at him briefly, and bends down to return the favour.


End file.
